(As dictated to Marina)

My name isn’t actually Riley, but it might as well be. After all, I live the good life. Riley’s life.

My name is really P.G. That’s short for “Pussy Galore.” Yes, I’m named after the character in the Bond film. But it is a preposterous name for me because she and I don’t look anything alike. The original Pussy Galore was blonde, I am a brunette.

It’s also ridiculous that the man who named me thinks of himself as my “father.” He’s totally bald, while I have a fine pelt of beautiful glossy black fur. … Excuse me a moment! [I don’t like the word “pelt” – makes me feel like a beaver. Beavers are rodents. I prefer to think of it as a coat – like mink.] Sniff.

Anyway, before I lived in my current home with my current “family,” I lived with my “grandmother” (my father’s mother) for a number of years. She was a strange bird. One day I overheard her say to my dad that I was “a weird cat” because I was standoffish and didn’t like snuggling. Can you imagine that? We didn’t really get on.

I don’t have a high opinion of my new “mother” either. When my father brought me to his new girlfriend’s house (now MY house), I hid behind the furnace in the laundry room because I was, er, a bit nervous about my unknown surroundings and the new humans. I was chased out of the corner by all the dust bunnies, my beautiful black COAT [ahem!] covered with grey grime. Obviously my mother doesn’t do very thorough cleaning. Achoo!

I have to put up with the children too. At least they are teenagers, which means they pretty much leave me alone and don’t chase me around or grab my tail. The older son is considerate enough to call me by my proper name. The rest of the family has various strange pet names for me, like “Kitty” and “Püsski.” I like to go visit the older son in his room occasionally because he treats me with the respect and gravitas to which I believe I am entitled [hey – scratch the “I believe”].

The younger son is more unpredictable. I’m never sure what he’s up to, although he seems to spend an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, looking through cupboards and the fridge, making the stove go “beep,” and spilling bits of food on the floor. He’s a restless twitchy fellow who likes to play mini basketball in the basement. He also plays some sort of musical instrument that sounds like it’s dying every time he blows into it. Sometimes he goes out to see his friends and then the house is calmer. I avoid him whenever I can. Sniff.

At night, I sleep with my “parents.” He sleeps with a lot of pillows, which she calls “The Great Wall.” I sit atop The Wall to keep an eye on them while they sleep – I never know when I may be unceremoniously thrown off the bed as one of them turns over. If it gets too chilly atop my fortress on the hill, I cuddle into the backs of my mother’s legs for warmth. I know she doesn’t really like this.

I have my new mom well trained. She gives me treats and wet food every morning. My dad scoffs at her and tells her she is spoiling me. She’s definitely easy to manipulate. She spends an inordinate amount of time wondering what I am thinking. I like to fake her out. My father is on to me, but I find it offensive when he says I only have three neurons to rub together. [What are neurons anyway?]

Every so often I like to give my parents a panic attack when I make a break for it. I escape outside and watch the squirrels. They are very big and fat in my neighbourhood – I don’t dare take them on, although I could probably outrun them if I tried. Which I don’t. Sniff.

Perhaps you are wondering about all the sniffing. You likely think I am just another arrogant cat. That is not the case. In fact, my sniffing is not voluntary. I have some sort of undiagnosed sinus condition that causes me to sniff and sneeze quite frequently. I’d like to think it’s my mother’s poor housekeeping, but I’ve had this problem wherever I’ve lived so I really can’t blame her. Perhaps I just have an allergy to these strange humans with whom I live. And yet people have avoided my house because of an allergy they have to ME!! Can you imagine that? Sniff.

Anyway, I have now wasted enough of my precious time telling you my life story. Time to do something important, like take another nap or give the custom furniture an extra scratch. Maybe later I’ll try to wheedle an additional treat out of my mother – it’s great sport.